


Put A Sour Little Flavour In My Mouth

by Salomonderiel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on tumblr. And addition/alteration to the chapter in the book where Enjolras provides justice to Le Cabuc, a man who needlessly killed another citizen. Victor Hugo later implies this man was Claquesous. </p>
<p>As he's attempting to clean his hands of the man's blood, Montparnasse appears, with the usual amused smile and tempting ideas. He's a guilty conscience, too charming to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put A Sour Little Flavour In My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> A Montparnasse/Enjolras fic, which was the prompt I got. Titled thus due to Priya telling me to. Also because the new, epic Panic! song is a damn good Montparnasse theme song. Canon era, an… expansion, if you will, to one of the scenes in the book (I’m kinda slotting Montparnasse into the aftermath, if you will). And gods but I hate endings.

He didn’t see him step out of the shadows. He never did. He didn’t _emerge_ , like some kind of renaissance villain. Montparnasse was no Vice character. He was a guilty conscience that was too charming to ignore.

"That was quite a shot."

No, Enjolras had not seen him step from the shadows, even though it was doubtless that that was where he had come from. “He was right in front of me," he said, voice level, using an already dirty cloth to wash the man’s blood from his hands. “To miss would have been more impressive."

"Yet so _clean…_ straight through the head, quite literally in one ear and out the other… I bet he hardly felt a thing." He laughed softly, his fingers ghosting over his clean-shaved skin as if brushing away an irritation, before rising to push back the rim of his hat back, letting him meet Enjolras’ eyes with his own. “Almost a shame. Something so poignant, so fleeting. You should have made it last longer."  
  


"I did what I had to," Enjolras said, a simple statement, resolutely not a defence, “Nothing more. I do not enjoy having blood on my hands." His gaze met Montparnasse’s once, before sliding back down to his hands and the futile attempts to scrub the red splatter marks from his hands. “Nor removing it."

"No, clearly - you shall cause your pretty hands to rash, if you scrub them so," Montparnasse mused, sounding amused. He stepped further forwards, his black leather boots carelessly stepping through pools of blood to reach Enjolras’ side. “Soap and water, my dearest, soap and water," he demanded, pulling the filthy rag from Enjolras’ grasp and letting it fall to the floor with distaste. “Or," he said softly, dangerously, a finger lifting to hook under Enjolras’ chin, tilting his head, making it so Enjolras could avoid his gaze no more, “you could always leave it on. After all, it does compliment the colour of your jacket stunningly well."

Enjolras met his gaze, unflinching. He raised an eyebrow, carelessly knocking Montparnasse’s touch from his skin. “Rather unsanitary," he said carelessly.

Montparnasse shrugged, lightly dusting off his glove with the reverse of his other hand. “I find it rather symbolic. Poignant. Our very own Angel of Justice, getting his hands dirty for the cause… quite literally…"

That, Enjolras didn’t answer. Rather, let his hands fall to his sides, making no further movement to clean them. His eyes fell down to the murderer, still lying where Enjolras had shot him. “He begged," he said, no more than a mutter, and with no emotion other than curiousity.

Montparnasse hummed an agreement. “I knew him," he said, as if this fact also amused him.

"I know," Enjolras replied, lip almost twitching into a smile. “I’m sorry, does that upset you?" he asked, just the other side of serious.

"Does it upset you that I keep bad company?" Montparnasse retorted, face tilted downwards at the body of Claquesous, but looking at Enjolras from the corner of his eyes.

"You’re the worst, of the company you keep," Enjolras replied.

Once again, Montparnasse laughed, the sound light and carefree. “Oh, perhaps, perhaps." He turned his back on the body, on Enjolras, tugging at his gloves. Enjolras waited, tilting his head slightly, lips just on the edge of a smile. “You know," Montparnasse said, folding his gloves neatly and slipping them into his pocket, “I _could_ be upset…"

Without a word, Montparnasse’s arm stretched out and his fingers clamped around Enjolras’ throat. A gasp struggled up from Enjolras’ lungs and through tightening fingers. The smile grew the slightest bit bigger.

"What if I was upset?" Montparnasse mused, tilting his head as he thought and pushed a barely struggling Enjolras back against the blood splattered brick wall. “What if I was… _angry_ at you?"

Enjolras’ back hit the wall, bare fingers bruising his skin and bare nails making him bleed. He tilted his head up, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

His hands slipped forwards, grabbing the material of Montparnasse’s coat, fingers digging in to his forearm.

"I would want to _hurt_ you, would I not?"

Most of the revolutionaries had dispersed, after the scene made by the shooting of Le Cabuc. The only one of Enjolras’ friends still in sight was Combeferre. He, as ever, was pretending not to see what was going on.

"Perhaps…" Montparnasse leant in, breathing in, lips brushing against the underside of Enjolras’ jaw and teeth close enough to graze, “Perhaps I’d want to _kill_ you?" he asked, sounding almost shocked by his own suggestion, and amused, as ever, amused.

Enjolras laughed, the sound stuttered by his inability to breath properly. “No," he gasped, pushing his head down and forcing Montparnasse to pull his lips away.

"Oh?" Montparnasse, smirking, eyes still gleaming in the shadow cast by his hat. “Wouldn’t I?"

Enjolras shook his head, smirking right back. His hands moved, slowly but surely. Fingers wrapped around the wrist by his neck, nails digging in and unforgiving, until Montparnasse let go. “No, ‘Parnasse," he said calmly, his other hand reaching up to wrap around Montparnasse’s throat, squeezing quickly and just hard enough to make his point, enjoying the feeling,the power Montparnasse granted him, just as he’d - momentarily - granted the same to him. “You _couldn’t_."

He stayed there, considering his next move, before he lightly clipped Montparnasse’s chin. The flash of annoyance on his face was enough to make Enjolras’ smile grow that bit more. He dropped Montparnasse’s wrist, and the two of them were left standing less than a foot apart, the skin on both their throats starting to blossom a warm red.

Enjolras stood there with the full knowledge that if Montparnasse all but hinted the suggestion at him, he would follow this, the criminal who aspired to all the vices, into an alley, and leave with far more bruises and bites than he currently had.

Yet he was prevented from having the chance by an uproar from barricades. Montparnasse’s eyes darted to a sight over Enjolras’ shoulder, and narrowed, before swiftly widening to their usual charming brightness. “Your duty calls, oh Angel of Justice," Montparnasse said, lips playing at a smile. Before Enjolras could send him away, he reached for Enjolras’ hand and gently lifted it to his mouth, where he brushed his lips over the blood-stained skin. “Enjoy the light, pretend you belong in heaven, that bit longer," he muttered, as his fingers traced the creases of Enjolras’ palm. “But Hell will be waiting."

Furious, Enjolras pulled his hand from Montparnasse’s grasp.

"Don’t forget to kill a few men, Enjolras," Montparnasse told him as he stepped away, voice light, almost singing. “It makes your eyes shine something beautiful."

Enjolras turned before he could see Montparnasse leave, refusing to be the last one looking.

There was disapproval in Combeferre’s eyes when Enjolras took his place on the barricade, as he was handed a full rifle. But Montparnasse, Enjolras had found, was a necessity. A outlet for sins, in a way. For emotions not befitting the leader Enjolras was going to be.

And perhaps, Enjolras considered as he levelled the sights on the head of a man down the other end of the street, he was a necessity that he had stopped feeling guilty for using. He pulled the trigger, and the solider died. He was necessity he was finding he rather enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
